


Somewhere in the Middle

by sneetchstar



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-17 00:36:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18954346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: It has been more than a year since the burning of King's Landing, and Gendry's boring life as Lord of Storm's End is about to change.





	1. Chapter 1

Storm’s End was boring. Being a lord was dreadfully dull, especially after the frantic life Gendry had been living up until now.

Now, a time of peace in the Seven Kingdoms. Now, when a usurper’s bastard is legitimized and made lord of a place he’s never been simply because he is the son of a man he never met.

And also because the Dragon Queen wanted to make sure he would be grateful enough to be loyal to her. And that he didn’t want to claim the iron throne for himself.

Gendry had actually laughed when he worked that one out. He didn’t even really want to be a lord, much less king. The only worth he can see in that ugly throne is the wealth of metal that could be re-forged into much more useful items.

Not that any of that even matters now, after everything that has transpired.

All in all, life is quiet now, mostly. There are rumors and gossip, of course, much of it about the strange young lord who keeps to himself.

“He’s the picture of his father in his youth.”

“He spurns the attentions of young ladies… maybe he’s more like his uncle.”

“I heard he was spotted in the smithy last week, pounding away at a sword.”

“He never smiles. He always looks unhappy. If he’s so miserable being a lord, I’ll trade places with him.”

Gendry ignores the gossip. He can’t summon up the energy to care. Let them think what they want about him. He is still heart sore, especially because he doesn’t know if Arya is alive or dead. Ser Davos had no information for him about her status or whereabouts, and he had absolutely nothing good to say about the battle at King’s Landing. Gendry wants to send a raven to Queen Sansa, but he is still learning his letters and wants – needs – to write this message himself. He trusts Ser Davos, but this is personal. Private.

A year passes and then some. Gendry has been able to write all the words he needs, but he is still working on how to put them together. He is just about to start another draft, but is interrupted from by a page knocking at his door.

“Yes?” he calls, trying not to sound too annoyed.

“Forgive me, my lord, but your presence has been requested,” the young man says.

Gendry’s heart lurches the way it always does when he is informed of an unexpected visitor. He wishes it wouldn’t; it’s never her. He sets his quill down and stands. “Very well,” he replies.

Of course it isn’t her. It is a small group of townsfolk, huddled and dirty, but they look happy. Davos is already there when Gendry arrives, and the old knight gives him a small nod.

“What can I help you with?” Gendry asks, addressing the group.

“Oh, nothing more, my lord!” an older woman exclaims. “You’ve done so much for us already, getting rid of those bandits.”

Gendry blinks once. _Bandits?_ He has a vague recollection of a report of bandits near the edges of his lands and an even vaguer memory of saying something about looking into it. “Oh…” he slowly says, trying to cover his confusion. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” a man, older than Gendry but not as old as Davos speaks up. “Nothing? They were found tied to a tree in the forest, all dead save one! Everything they stole from us has been returned!”

“Were there any others? Other groups of bandits causing trouble?” Gendry asks them.

“No, my lord,” the first woman answers.

Gendry nods, his face thoughtful. Something is prickling in the back of his brain. A feeling. Not quite hope, because he doesn’t allow himself to have hope, but a simple feeling that his lands are going to be safe. So he says so. “I have a feeling you will be perfectly safe for some time.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the group of people all chorus. The older woman who first spoke thrusts something at him as she curtseys, and they all make their exit, gently shepherded by Ser Davos.

Gendry unwraps the bundle to find a large loaf of bread, still warm. He is staring at it with unseeing eyes when Davos returns.

“My lord,” he says, stepping over. “The man left alive had a message for you.”

“Where is he?” Gendry asks. He furrows his brow. “Do we have a dungeon?”

“We do,” Davos confirms. “But I have the message here.” He hands a folded piece of parchment to him.

The message is short, but it very nearly buckles his knees.

_They were rapers and murderers._

“My lord?” Davos inquires, but Gendry merely folds the note back up and tucks it into his vest. He grabs the back of a nearby chair to steady himself.

“God’s balls, boy, what is in that note? You turned white as a sheet!” Davos asks.

“Arya. It was Arya,” Gendry answers, his voice a whisper. “That means she’s here. Or was.”

“You’re still hung up on that tiny little lady, are—”

“She’s not a Lady,” Gendry snaps, interrupting. “She’d tell you that herself, if she was here,” he adds, softer.

“Ah,” Davos says, suddenly understanding. “And I have a feeling that’s _why_ she’s not here, eh? You wanted her to be a Lady. _Your_ Lady.”

“One of the stupider things I’ve done,” Gendry confirms. “I knew she… I mean… she never wanted…” he stammers, then stops. “I should have stopped after I said, ‘Be with me.’ She might have, then. But no, I had to get down on one knee and ask her to be my wife. To be the Lady of Storm’s End!” He is yelling by the end, still angry with his stupid, drunken proposal. “I wish I could blame the ale,” he adds, no longer yelling.

“Well, my lad, you obviously didn’t disgust her completely, because she’s out dispensing vigilante justice on criminals in your lands and letting you take the credit,” Davos says, clapping Gendry on the back.

Gendry looks down, his hand absently stroking the pocket where he put her note. “I want to talk to the prisoner,” he says.

“I thought you might,” Davos replies, then leads him down to the cellar.


	2. Chapter 2

“He’s little more than a boy,” Gendry whispers, seeing the small form curled on a narrow pallet on the floor.

“Breaks your heart, doesn’t it?” Davos replies. “Maybe it’s not too late for him though. Make him a stablehand or something, get him on the right path?” he suggests.

Gendry half-shrugs, then approaches the young man as Davos leaves them alone. “Wake up,” he says, and the boy stirs. He slowly blinks, then sits up. He isn’t shackled, but he is locked behind a barred door. “Who did it?”

“Who did what?” the boy answers, his voice hoarse.

Gendry heaves an exasperated sigh. “Did you see who killed your mates?” he asks, his voice clear and slow.

“No,” the boy answers after a moment’s hesitation.

Gendry raises an eyebrow. “That didn’t sound very convincing. What aren’t you telling me?”

“I didn’t see him,” the boy says, louder, and something in his defiant tone seems odd. Almost familiar.

Gendry steps closer. “Do I know you? What’s your name?” He doesn’t know how he could possibly know this boy. He’s only been here a short time and hasn’t really made an effort to get to know anyone.

The boy looks up at him. Then he stands up. He’s short. Very short. And very thin. “My name is Arry,” he answers.

Gendry feels like his heart has stopped. “A-Arry?” he stammers.

“You’re still stupid then,” he says, reaching up towards his neck. Gendry doesn’t even notice that the boy’s voice sounds completely different now because he’s too busy watching, eyes wide, as Arry peels his face off, revealing the real one below.

He takes a step back in shock, then two steps forward, close to the cell. “I never stopped being stupid,” Gendry whispers. “And you… you just make me even stupider,” he adds, grabbing the bars for support because he doesn’t trust his legs.

“And how do I do that?” Arya Stark softly asks, slowly walking towards him. She reaches the bars and wraps her small hands around his large ones as best she can.

“You make me lose the ability to think,” he answers, moving one hand to take hers, pulling it through the bars to kiss her knuckles. “And then I do unbelievably idiotic things like ask you to be who you aren’t just because I think I’m suddenly worthy of you.”

“You were always worthy of me, Gendry,” she reminds him.

Gendry stares down at her, transfixed. She’s definitely Arya, his Arya, but there is a softness about her that wasn’t there before, back in Winterfell. He sees shadows of the girl she was way before, when he was little more than a boy himself. She is still the quiet, intense woman who threw knives with deadly precision at a beam ten yards away, the same brave, bold warrior who killed the Night King, but she looks like she has allowed herself to reclaim some of the humanity she seemed to have lost.

“A cold little bitch,” Clegane had called her. Gendry wonders what the big man would call her now. If he is still alive.

“Are you going to let me out of here or just stare at me?” Arya asks, breaking into his reverie.

“I’m going to stare at you a little longer,” he answers, doing just that. “If I let you out, you might disappear on me again.”

She rolls her eyes. “Stupid,” she quietly huffs, but he can tell she is trying not to smile. “Would I have gone to such lengths if I was intending to just _run away_?” she asks.

It’s a good point, but he still has to ask. “Why did you go to such lengths?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, exhales, and starts to move back, away from him. For once in his life, Gendry is quicker than Arya Stark and he grabs her wrist, his hold firm, but gentle.

“Arya,” he softly says.

“I was afraid,” she admits, not looking at him.

“You?” he asks. “I’ve never known you to be afraid of anything.”

“I was afraid if I just walked up to your gates, you’d turn me away. You wouldn’t want to see me,” she admits, not looking at him, silently cursing the fact that he seems to be the one person from whom she can hide nothing.

“Arya—”

“Or worse, that you’d found someone else. Someone who can be a _real_ Lady,” she finishes.

He sighs, his thumb gently rubbing the inside of her wrist. “I don’t want a real Lady,” he says. “I want you. In whatever way you’ll have me.” He lightly tugs on her arm and she willingly moves closer again, just on the other side of the bars. “I was… half drunk on ale and half drunk on being made legitimate and half drunk on… on you…”

“That’s three halves, Gendry,” Arya interjects, trying to ignore the way his words are making her heart thump and stomach flutter.

He looks up then back down at her in fond exasperation. “Whatever the case, if I hadn’t been so overwhelmed by everything going on, I would have had the sense to stop before I asked you to be my wife and Lady.”

She lifts up on tiptoe and kisses him. “No, you wouldn’t have,” she tells him, now no longer hiding her smile. He snorts a laugh despite himself, and she continues. “And I still would have said no. I had… I was always planning to leave, and I didn’t know if I’d be back or not.”

“Arya…”

“I almost didn’t make it out alive.”

He blinks. She wouldn’t lie to him, he knows this. “So why are you here now?”

“Let me out,” she says after a pause. “Please.”

He releases her wrist, which he was still holding even though she was no longer resisting. “I… I don’t have a key,” he says, looking around for a guard or Davos or anyone that might have a key.

“It’s on the wall behind you,” she tells him. “Or I could pick the lock. Your choice.”

“I’ll get the key,” he replies. He turns around and spots the key hanging on a nail. When he unlocks and opens the door, she flies at him, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He catches her easily, her slight weight no burden at all to his strong frame.

“Ar—”

She cuts him off with her lips on his, kissing him with the same desperation as the night before the battle at Winterfell. Only this time there is no surprise, no fumbling, no figuring out what they’re doing. Her lips know his, just as his know hers, and their kisses gradually slow as they take their time becoming reacquainted.

Eventually she lets go and they part, staring dumbly at one another for a few moments. “Gendry?” she finally says.

“Yes?” he asks.

“Do you… do you still think I’m beautiful?” Her voice is uncharacteristically small, the voice of a woman who had never been called “beautiful” before that night. “Do you… do you still… love me?”

“Gods, Yes. Always,” he assures her, reaching up to caress her cheek. Part of him can’t believe she needed to ask, but most of him knows exactly why she did.

She puts her hand over his on her cheek. “We’ve wasted so much time,” she sighs.

His brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

She chuckles. “We could have been together for years now if you weren’t so worried about titles. So many things in both our lives could have been different.”

He slides his hand out from under hers and angles his head at her. “I do beg your pardon, _m’lady_ , but I am not the only person in this dungeon who is preoccupied with titles,” he says.

She huffs and turns away. “I have never—”

“I _know_ that,” he interjects, grabbing her elbow and turning her to face him again. “And I cannot believe you thought I didn’t know you well enough to know that you wouldn’t be a Lady like your mother or sister! I _did_ know that! ‘Lady’ is nothing more than a… a word!” he explains, nearly shouting now.

“And so is ‘bastard,’ stupid!” she yells back. “I… I loved you before I even knew what it was to love someone, and you pushed me away because you thought you weren’t good enough for me! You were the best person I had ever met, and there you were saying _you_ weren’t good enough! And then when you finally think you are, you… you immediately propose!”

“I proposed because _I love you!_ ” he shouts, grabbing her and kissing her with all the fire and passion building from their argument.

She melts for a second, then pushes him away. Then she steps forward, punches him hard on the shoulder, and then grabs his jerkin and pulls him back down for another fiery kiss.

“Arya,” he says, breathing heavily, once they pull apart again. He rests his forehead against hers. “Did you never pay attention when we were in Winterfell? Do you honestly think little Lyanna Mormont was floating around her castle in gowns doing needlepoint? She was the scariest little girl I had ever seen – after you, of course – and she was still a Lady.” Arya closes her eyes, and Gendry continues. “And I know you saw Lady Brienne. Even sparred with her, I’m told. And she’s head of the bloody King’s Guard!”

“All right, you’ve made your point,” she says, dropping her head against his chest. “I guess I can be stupid, too.”

“I’m still stupider,” he remarks, gently lifting her chin. He kisses her forehead. “But when you’re told your whole life that you are worthless, you start believing it.”

“I’m sorry you were made to believe you weren’t worthy of me,” she says, her gray eyes wide and sincere as she looks up at him. His fingers are still under her chin, warm and familiar and still slightly rough.

“And I’m sorry you were made to believe that you had to be like Sansa to be a Lady,” he replies.

She moves his hand, holding it between both of hers. She lifts it to her lips and kisses his rough knuckles, warm and familiar.

“Gendry Baratheon, will you be my family?” she asks, looking up at him.

“Yes,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against hers once more and loosely wrapping his arms around her.

“I won’t wear dresses,” she tells him.

“I don’t expect you to,” he replies.

“I may leave from time to time.”

“As long as you come back to me.”

“I… I’m not sure if I want to have a baby or not.”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t expect me to be quiet, or demure, or do things like needlework.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I’m still going to practice with my sword.”

“You can train our knights.”

“People will gossip.”

“They already do.”

She kisses him again. “You’re sure you want me? _Me?_ ”

“It’s the only thing I’ve ever been sure about, Arya,” he answers. “I may have been a bit drunk, but I meant every word I said that night. And I was right. None of this has been worth anything because you haven’t been here.”

“I’m tired of being alone,” she admits after a moment, like it is difficult her for her to admit. “I’ve been on my own for so long… taking care of myself because there was no one else to do it—”

He kisses her. “I’ll take care of—”

“I didn’t say that,” she interrupts. “I don’t expect you to take care of me. I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“I know,” he allows with a small smile. “You never have.”

She can see that he’s a little disappointed. “We’ll figure it out. Meet somewhere in the middle, I suppose,” she assures him, pecking his lips once, then again. “I love you, too,” she says, looking down as she confirms her earlier statement.

Her downcast eyes allow him to catch her by surprise with his fervent, joyous kiss. She makes a small squeak of surprise before wrapping her arms around his neck, hanging on as he moves with her in his arms, lifting her up and bracing her against a stone wall. She wraps her legs around him again, her thighs gripping him so tightly it makes him grunt but also sends a rush of heat to his groin.

He loves her strength, her independence, her fire. He tells her with his lips, tongue, and teeth as he kisses her lips, his tongue stroking hers. He moves to place biting kisses on her neck and she sighs, her fingers digging into his scalp.

A gruff throat-clearing reaches their ears, but they don’t spring guiltily apart like they’ve been caught doing something they shouldn’t be. Gendry merely drops his head onto Arya’s shoulder.

“Ser Davos,” Arya says, looking over Gendry’s head at the intruder.

“Lady Stark,” Davos says, sounding only a little surprised.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call her that.”

Gendry and Arya speak in unison as she slides down out of his arms and he turns around.

Davos smiles a little. “I had a feeling you were our mystery vigilante,” he says. “No one else would care.” He sees the empty cell. “Where is the boy?”

“She was the boy,” Gendry answers. “In disguise.”

Davos looks at Arya, studying her. She looks nothing at all like the boy who was dragged in barely conscious. “Good disguise,” he simply says.

“Did you need something, Ser Davos?” Gendry asks, trying to sound polite. He’s not sure if he succeeded.

“No, no… It’s just you were down here a while, so I thought I’d check on you. Clearly, you’re doing fine, so I’ll just… leave you to it then,” he says, turning to leave.

Gendry drops his head, embarrassed.

“Where is your room?” Arya asks, not embarrassed at all.

Without a word, he takes her hand and leads her up the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3

They only saw a few people on their way up to Gendry’s rooms. Ser Davos was one of them, and he dutifully avoided looking at them, even though Arya was pretty certain the old knight knew exactly what they were up to.

She didn’t care. Gendry is still here and he’s still hers.

So when he drags her into his room, closes and bolts the door, she is ready for him, not even flinching when he immediately presses her against the door, his lips devouring hers.

Their hands are as busy as their lips, pulling at buckles and throwing belts and tugging shirts. It’s nearly as frantic as their first time.

They both seem to realize this at the same time, and simultaneously pull away from each other.

“We don’t have to rush,” Gendry breathlessly says.

“No, we don’t,” Arya agrees, her eyes shamelessly raking over his bare chest.

“Fuck,” he curses, and reaches for her. She laughs and is barely able to get her feet out of her boots before he picks her up and carries her over to his bed.

He throws her onto the mattress, accidentally using more force than necessary. She is so small and slight he’s fairly certain he could lift two of her with ease.

She makes a small surprised sound, which in turn surprises him and he stops, eyes wide. “Did I hurt you?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes and asks, “Was that revenge for all the times I pushed you?”

He merely chuckles, looking down to remove his boots and trousers. “You know I let you do that,” he says. “If I had wanted to, I could have kept my feet.”

“Mmm,” she replies, appearing to humor him though she knows he is right. He’s always been extremely strong, even when he was younger. “You were pretty surprised when I pushed you onto those grain sacks,” she points out, shuffling out of her own trousers and throwing them at him.

“Very well, that one was a surprise. But when you were a kid, I let you,” he clarifies.

“Right,” she says. “We’ll see how well you keep your feet on the training ground,” she challenges as he climbs onto the bed, looming over her.

“I’ve been practicing,” he says, dropping down to kiss her lips, then her neck.

“Have you been… practicing right?” she asks, her voice turning breathy.

“If I haven’t, I’m sure you’ll tell me,” he answers, kissing down to her breasts, small and firm and perfect, saying a silent prayer of thanks that he doesn’t see any new scars on her creamy skin.

When he closes his lips over her already stiff nipple and swirls his tongue around the firm nub, she moans and burrows her fingers in his hair, which is now long enough to grab.

He surrounds her, his body over hers, his hands seemingly everywhere. She revels in the feel of his rough blacksmith’s hands and the slight scratch of his unshaven face on her skin.

His kisses travel lower, down over her stomach. He bravely ghosts kisses over the long scars on her side, then traces them with his fingers, still wondering how she got them and how she even survived them.

“If I promise to tell you later will you get on with whatever you were doing?” Arya asks, looking down at Gendry with a raised eyebrow.

He hadn’t realized he had lingered long enough to give himself away, and guiltily looks up at her before lowering his head and lightly biting the skin on her side, below the scars.

When he scoots lower, settling between her thighs, she squirms, anxious but excited for what she thinks he is about to do.

He kisses her inner thigh, high up, and she hums in pleasure.

“I had wanted to do this that night in Winterfell, but time was not a luxury we had,” he tells her, still peppering kisses on her thighs, teasing her. He lightly runs his tongue along the crease at the top of her thigh and she has to fight the urge to shove his head down against her.

“Fucking tease,” she grunts out, and he merely chuckles again.

Then he swipes his tongue through her folds and she arches off the bed.

“Stay put,” he murmurs, his large hands holding her hips steady. She may be strong for her size, but he is twice as big and at least twice as strong. His hold is firm, his fingers slightly digging into her flesh, but he is not hurting her at all.

In fact, she finds the slight discomfort of being restrained to be somewhat exhilarating.

He does sinful things with his tongue, swirling and sucking and flicking. At one point, he even thrusts it inside her, as deep as it will go, flexing it this way and that for a few seconds before returning to circle her clit until her fingers grip the sheets so tightly that she nearly tears them.

“Ah!” she exclaims, writhing under his attention. Pure pleasure builds within her, sending a wave of delicious warmth from her center to the tips of her fingers and toes, and she moans long and low until it crests and she comes with a hoarse shout.

Gendry grins against her warm, damp flesh, turning his face to place one last, lingering kiss to the inside of Arya’s upper thigh. Then he kisses a path back up over her body, dallying at places her found to be the most sensitive during his journey down. When he reaches her neck, he bites it just hard enough to send a thrill down her spine, then lets her pull his face to hers.

She kisses him deeply, one hand holding his head, the other skimming down his body, questing for the thickness of him she feels against her hip.

When she wraps her small, strong fingers around him, he grunts. When she strokes him, his head drops against hers, as if she has rendered him helpless with her touch.

“Gods, Arya…” he pants, regaining some control over himself. “I missed you so much… I love you so much…”

“I missed you, too,” she replies, gently catching his lower lip between her teeth. “That’s why I came back… I missed you and I love you and… ohhh…” she pauses as he sheathes himself within her, filling her both physically and emotionally. “Yes…”

Gendry pulls back enough to move over her, and Arya wraps her legs around his waist. He kisses her deeply, then lifts up, kneeling on the bed and pulling her with him, his hands once again gripping her hips.

His eyes bore into hers, regarding her with an intensity that still manages to be soft and loving. His gaze travels some, over her small, lithe body, watching her, watching where they are joined, but his eyes always return to hers.

He moves his hands, sliding up her sides and under her shoulders. He lifts her up so she is straddling him, both upright on the bed now.

Her lips find his immediately, her arms wrapping around his broad shoulders as she continues to move with him.

“Ar—” her name sticks in his throat as he begins to unravel. He thinks – hopes – that she is close again as well, and moves one hand so he can rub soft, small circles on her clit with his thumb.

When she gasps, he knows his guess was right, and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to hold on just a little longer.

Her nails dig into his back and she chokes on his name when she climaxes a second time. Her body goes limp for a few seconds, but he holds on, supporting her through it.

“I’m gonna… I should…” he grunts, trying to pull away from her so he doesn’t spill inside her.

“Stay.” This one word is his undoing, and he surges into her, his arms wrapping around her, squeezing her tightly, his whole body tense and still, every muscle taut.

A few moments later, he relaxes and they slump together onto the bed, disconnecting from each other in the process.

He pulls her to his side, holding her so she is resting her head on his shoulder. He tries not to act like he is holding her so she doesn’t run away.

“I’m not going anywhere, Gendry,” she says, as if she has read his mind.

“What?” he asks, trying to sound innocent.

“You’re very tense and are holding me pretty tightly,” she explains. Then she pokes him in the ribs, making him jump. He relaxes a bit after that, still holding her, but not as firmly.

“That was better than last time,” he says.

“Yes,” she agrees. “Have you… had any practice since I’ve been away?” she carefully asks.

“No,” he answers. “Have you?”

“None,” she replies. “I locked myself in my cabin, alone, every night.”

“Good,” he says, possessive again.

“There are probably going to be some disappointed Ladies in the Stormlands soon,” she observes.

“Why do you say that?” he asks.

“Because you’re going to marry me, stupid,” she answers, pinching him. “What did you think I meant when I asked you to be my family?”

“I knew what you meant,” he protests. “I just don’t think very many Ladies will be disappointed.”

“Well, they had better be!” she exclaims. “I want them to be positively green with envy because you are mine.”

Gendry smiles, immensely pleased that he’s not the only one feeling possessive this evening. “Yes, I am,” he confirms, kissing the top of her head.

Arya slides her hand over his stomach to grip his other side, squeezing him affectionately. Then she sighs and settles against him again.

“So, what is west of Westeros?” Gendry asks at length, trailing his rough fingers up and down her spine.

“There is a whole other land,” Arya sleepily replies.

“What was it like? Were there people there?” he asks, interested. He never even gave such a thing a thought until she left.

“Yes, there were. They… seemed kind enough. We didn’t understand each other, of course, but they didn’t immediately try to kill us. We only stayed a short time though. Didn’t want to disrupt their lives,” she answers.

“Did you bring anything back?” he asks.

“Only memories and the knowledge that I got there,” she replies. “It seemed disrespectful to… gather souvenirs.”

“Good point. But don’t you want to prove that it’s there? People might not believe you.”

“I had a whole crew with me,” she reminds him. “They were talking of going back, but… I’m not going.”

“Good,” he immediately blurts. “I mean, um…” he pauses, thinks a minute, then repeats, “Good.”

They lie quietly for a few minutes before Gendry speaks up again. “Arya?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you… do you want me to have the maester make you some moon tea?” he asks.

“Why?” she replies.

“You let me… um, I mean, I spent inside you. You’re not concerned about becoming with child?”

She lifts up and looks down at him. “If there is one thing I’ve learned during the life that I’ve had, it’s that things that are meant to happen, will happen. If I am meant to bear you a child, then… so be it.”

His worried expression immediately softens into one of surprised elation. He tenderly guides her face back to his for a soft, slow kiss.

“We can marry tomorrow, if you like,” she says, then gives him one more brief kiss before settling back down on his shoulder.

He looks down at her. “Don’t you want your family to come?”

She leans her head back to meet his gaze. “Jon is north of the Wall, doing only the Seven know what. Sansa just had a baby and will not travel. And Bran has probably already ‘seen’ it,” she says.

“Oh,” he replies, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her up over him.. “Then yes, I would like that very much.”

She snorts a laugh, straddling his stomach and looking down at him the way she did the first time they were together. “I can’t promise I won’t wander off from time to time, even though we are marrying. But I can promise I will always come back to you,” she says, closing her eyes.

“That’s all I ever wanted, Arya,” he replies, sliding his hands up her sides to guide her lips back to his.


End file.
